


The Lone Wolf Dies

by Damdamfino



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dany bashing, Dark!Dany, F/M, Political!Jon, Post Season 7, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, You don’t know what you love until it’s gone, quite a reunion at Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 08:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12009279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damdamfino/pseuds/Damdamfino
Summary: Post Season 7.Jon and Daenerys arrive at Winterfell, and it is not the greeting Jon expected. Sansa pokes the Dragon.What do we say to the god of death?Not today.





	1. Winterfell Is My Home

 

  
He rode with Daenerys and their traveling group through the North. Their arrival at White Harbor was met with lukewarm greetings, but that was to be expected. This was not the result Jon had promised before he left, and he was sure disappointment had spread throughout his kingdom.

Daenerys had chosen to forgo her dragons to mount a horse instead, as a show of equality and peace to the Northern people. Tyrion had insisted. So the dragons flew freely overhead, their screeches calling out and shaking the mountains in their path. But as they approached Winterfell, the dragons were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they had stayed behind with the encampment, Jon hoped.

Their group was small, as Jon had insisted Daenerys did not need to bring an army to Winterfell with them. This was a formal greeting; an introduction of her to the castle that would soon become her home during the fight against the Night King. Once they arrived, then they could discuss their plans. They would go to Castle Black, to defend the Gift from any further movement south. To keep the Night King as far away from Winterfell, his home, his family, and his heart, as he could. This was only a formality.

Brienne and Podrick rode courteously behind him, eagerly awaiting their return back to Winterfell. Brienne had told Jon of Sansa’s grace and diplomacy in his absence, and of Arya’s excellence with her tiny sword, Needle. Brienne’s stories and first-hand accounts had given him a brief moment of happiness in his stressful nights. He missed his sisters terribly. He was just as anxious to return to Winterfell as they were.

The Hound, Sandor Clegane, rode beside them, seemingly reluctant to be there, in his own way. He shifted uncomfortably on his own horse as they drew closer to the castle. He didn't speak much, only murmuring to Beric and Brienne when the conversation grew quiet, gruffly voicing his opinion when he saw fit.

Tyrion has asked Jon several times if he had received a raven from Sansa. When Jon had told him that he had not, Tyrion assured him it was probably because of their quick travel. Ravens can only travel between castles - and they had been moving constantly for several weeks now. Jon wanted to believe him, to agree that it was only a circumstance of the travel that had kept his sister's words from him. But his agony in waiting for her response worried him. He was walking in blind, with the Dragon Queen by his side. He had been dreading this moment for weeks.

Several ravens had been sent ahead of them. News of the alliance. News of hope for help from the South and the Dragon Queen to defeat the Night King. Yet he had received nothing back. Not a word. Not a scroll. Silence.

As he rode up to the fields of his childhood home, flanking Daenerys on her own horse, he suddenly could see why.

There was a welcome party.

Sansa sat on a dove grey horse, her black cape cascading down the horse's back. Her face was still as the party approached. The tension rose in his chest at her watchful eyes. He had not dreaded this moment enough, it seemed. He was not prepared for the cold, distant look on his dear sister's face.

Several Lords waited behind the Lady of Winterfell, sitting atop their own horses with the banners for their houses flapping in the cold winds above them. Arryn, Mormont, Manderly, Cerwyn… he counted them off in his head. Those who had denied him and his sister in the past were now strong behind her. The Lord's had always provoked an insecurity in his bastard blood, but this was different. This wasn't just insecurity. What he felt was fear.

Then he saw her. _Arya._ Sitting on her own dark chestnut mare. She was so much bigger than when he had last seen her. He wanted to dismount and run the rest of the way to her and hold her in his arms. _Arya…_ But they were not alone.

Daenerys slowed her horse to a stop as they approached the group.

“Greetings,” she announced. “How gracious for you to meet us.” Though her words were not sweet - they never were - and she measured the air between the two parties cautiously.

“You’ve traveled very far,” Sansa responded, her horse shifting impatiently under her. Her voice did not waver, and it carried loud and clear across the void. “It would be rude of me to not turn you away personally.”

Daenerys remained silent. Instead of responding, she slowly turned in her seat to face Jon, a bewildered question in her eyes. He had no answer for her. Tyrion shot Jon a pointed look, knowing all too well the difficulties of siblings.

Jon kicked his horse to trot up level of Daenerys, stopping mere breathes away from his sisters.

“Sansa, I’ve pledged my loyalty as Warden of the North to Queen Daenerys. That includes Winterfell,” he stated. He had said as much in the letter. “If you are angry with me, we can talk privately. But not here.”

Sansa regarded him as if he were a stranger. He suddenly felt more alone than he ever had before. Gone was the sweetness she had shown in her compliments. Gone was the young girl from his childhood. What sat before him could very well have been a stone statue in the crypts.

“I’m sure you’ve pledged much to her…” she responded, quiet enough that the words were only meant for him.

Her accusation stung him like cold steel. “That's enough, Sansa. My word is final.”

“Yes,” she spoke so softly it was almost a sigh. “You’ve made your choice.” Her words were painfully melancholy. She softened for a moment to steal a glance into his eyes, before dropping her face away and returning to stone.

“We know no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark.” Lyanna Mormont bellowed from her own steed. Her eyes were glowering, stern and furious. _Not little Lyanna…_

“Perhaps we were mistaken,” Lord Royce spoke, and Jon snapped his head towards him. “We didn't need a King - instead we needed a Queen.”

“Sansa Stark has protected the Northerners in this Winter,” Lord Manderly shouted. “She stayed with her people. She is Eddard Stark’s daughter, through and through.”

“First the Wildlings, and now a foreign whore,” Lord Glover spat, his horse just as wide as he was. “You’re not a Northerner. You’re anything but.”

Jon felt surrounded, like a stag in the center of a hunt. Each declaration another arrow into his heart. _How dare they speak to their King this way…_ He had to calm himself from an outburst. These men had sworn to him not long ago. He had expected outrage at his return but not complete mutiny.

He looked to Sansa for an answer. Surely Sansa would not leave him to the wolves. Yet she avoided his eye.

“You don't understand,” he insisted. Surely she would listen to him, her brother. “If I could only explain-”

“You’ve made a lot of rash decisions of late,” Sansa interrupted. _If only he had listened to her from the beginning…_ “And not enough explanations.”

“I thought you said they were your family?” Daenerys called from behind him.

“They are,” Jon insisted, trying to quiet his restless horse under him. “Arya-” he started, spinning his horse to face her. “Little sister, I’ve missed you so much…”

Arya seemed to weaken, glancing toward her sister before turning back to Jon. Her eyes lingered on Daenerys before her mouth flattened in a wry frown.

“I missed you too, Jon…” she called back, and his heart knew that she meant it. “But Starks stick together. I know that now. What would Father think?” His heart broke. _If only they knew…_ “You're no kneeler.” But he had been kneeling all his life.

“Enough!” Daenerys shouted, and the bickering ceased. She seemed to smile through her fire. “I am your Queen. I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. I am the true, rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Queen of the Andals and the First Men. I am the Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. The Mother of Dragons. I am Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Unburnt. I am the Breaker of Chains. I have come to protect the Seven Kingdoms from the Night King, and you refuse me?”

There was a long silence as Sansa’s party shifted amongst themselves, sharing looks of confusion and shock between the Lords. Arya cocked an eyebrow and stifled a laugh. From deep within the group of men, Jon heard a quiet and gruff “ _for fucks sake."_   Sansa seemed to be the only one able to keep her composure.

“Breaker of chains?” Sansa repeated. “Forgive me, but it appears you want to put us in chains. To rule the Seven Kingdoms against our wishes. The North is independent. We do not wish to bow to a foreign woman.”

Daenerys fumed from her saddle, tightening her jaw as her eyes grew wild. She seemed to struggle holding her anger in as she replied through clenched teeth, “I am as strong and just as any man-”

“You misunderstand me,” Sansas words were as sweet as poisoned wine. “I don't doubt you because you are a woman. Men are...untrustworthy. Selfish.” Sansa's eyes cut Jon to his core as she sliced him with a glance. “I doubt you because you are a foreigner.”

_Don't do it…_ Jon pleaded in his head, gripping the reigns of his horse tighter in his fist. _She’ll kill you. Don't you understand?_ But Sansa could not know.

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion finally spoke up. “Perhaps considering everything, you could put aside your prejudice and merely listen-”

“Winter is here,” Sansa continued. “I care little about your war for the Iron Throne. Take it. But the North will never be yours.”

“Your King bowed the knee for your people,” Daenerys called out for all the Lords to hear. “Your brother declared for me, and gave me what is rightfully mine in return for my help. You’re defying your King?”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed and her chin lifted higher in the air. Defiance was in her blood. But this was not the fury of little Joffrey she was against. Jon knew once she and the Lords saw Daenerys’ dragons they would not act so confident. They had no idea.

“He is not our King,” Lord Royce answered for Sansa. “He does not speak for the North.”

“By refusing me, you are in open rebellion,” Daenerys snarled, her voice a harsh warning. Jon’s blood ran cold. _Please no…_

“If that is what you want me to say,” Sansa replied. “Then so be it. We do not want a war between us, but the North will not kneel. It is not, and will never be, yours.”

“Lady Sansa!” Tyrion shouted now. “I implore you!”

The winter winds blew strong behind Sansa and her party, clouding Winterfell in such a strong blanket of snow flurries that it was barely visible to Jon now.

His heart cracked like ice. _His blood…His home...Arya...Sansa… What had he done?_

“Brienne. Podrick.” Sansa called out as her party started to turn away. Brienne kicked her horse hard, and the beast ran quickly to Sansa’s side. Podrick, the poor boy, seemed frightened as he followed her, casting Jon a wide eyed glance as he passed him to join the other side.

“Hound?” a curious voice rang out amidst the shuffle. Arya stood in her stirrups, craning her neck to see past the Dragon Queen. Her face was inquisitive, her brow knit together so deep Jon couldn't help but wonder the relation between the two. “Why are you here?”

Everyone turned to look at Sandor, waiting for a response. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, his eyes darting back and forth quickly as his mouth turned down into a hard frown. There was a deep growl, an angry and guttural sound, before the towering man finally spoke. “Oh, fuck it.” And then his horse was galloping to the other party as well.

“I didn’t _want_ you to-” Arya started to protest.

“Shut up,” he snapped back. His horse fell into step behind Brienne’s, and the party left, leaving Jon behind with the Dragon Queen’s group.

“Any more surprises?” Daenerys asked the air, turning a wary eye onto her Hand.

Jon was speechless. He had offered the North and his title to Daenerys in agreement of receiving help for the Night King - but somehow having his title _taken_ from him by the very people who crowned him hurt ten times more. He had not expected _this_.

The way Sansa had looked at him… Arya’s words… This was wrong. This was against his plans. They were going to ruin everything. Perhaps _he_ had ruined everything. He had learned the hard way that you don’t deny Daenerys Targaryan. He was trying to _save them_. Couldn't they see? No. How could they? He should have seen this coming.

Daenerys was speaking to him, but he couldn't hear her. Her words were lost to the background of his frantic thoughts.

_Sansa...Bran...Arya!_

He was not going to lose them.

“What are you _doing_?” But Daenerys words went unheard, as his horse was already running to meet the other group at the gates, leaving her behind him.

As Jon approached, two guards blocked Jon from Sansa, threateningly pulling their swords from their sheaths in warning. His horse reared back, frightened, but Jon ignored it. “Sansa!” he called through the guards.

Sansa’s blue eyes quickly turned back, and instantly she yelled, “Put your weapons down!” The guards obeyed, and Jon saw a glimmer of hope. “He’s still my brother,” she chastised. “It’s alright. Leave us,” she said, turning her horse from the group. Brienne stayed back, cautiously watching as Sansa approached him away from the group.

“Don't do this,” he pleaded as soon as she was close enough to whisper. Once she was sure they were alone, her stony face melted, as he saw his sweet, broken sister once again. She worried her bottom lip, and her eyes searched his.

“I didn’t want this,” she said. “But the North did. They see you as a traitor.”

“Do you?” he asked.

Her eyes fell from his, and he could feel her heart breaking as if it were his own. She didn’t answer. _What had he done?_

“Sansa, please, I beg you. Don’t do this. You don’t know what she’s capable of.” His voice cracked with fear. For the first time in months he felt truly afraid. Afraid of what was to happen. Afraid of losing his family. Afraid for Sansa.

Her head picked up as his tone. She searched his eyes desperately. He was supposed to be the strong one. For a moment he hoped she was listening to him - truly listening. She seemed to hesitate and weaken at his plea, but she swallowed back her true response for a regal one.

“It doesn’t matter. If I kneel, then the North will do the same to me, Jon. You don’t understand - I have no other choice.”

Her words resounded loudly in his head. _I didn't want this. I have no choice._ Guilt crashed over him as he realized she was right. He had done this to her. He had put her in a position to choose family or duty. He thought he was only sacrificing himself with his choices - but he had taken her down with him.

“You’ve made your choice. Go to the Wall. Do whatever you need to do. I promise you, the North will not interfere.” If Jon’s heart was not too busy breaking, he would have been proud to hear Sansa speak so queenly. It seemed to suit her well. “And I will help you against the Night King. But the North will never kneel. The Lords have made it rather clear, that they would rather fall on their own swords than bow to a foreigner. Robb died for independance. I cannot let his death, and the deaths of many others, be in vain.”

“I will fix this, Sansa. I swear to you - I will make this right.”

“I pray for it,” Sansa smiled lightly, staring into his eyes so intently, it was as if she was trying to commit his face to memory. “Until we meet again.” But her eyes said otherwise.

Then she turned her horse and left him alone, at the gates of Winterfell as she rejoined the guards who were waiting for her. Thus, he started as he began; a stranger to his home and without a name. So close and yet so far from his heart.

 


	2. Fire and Blood

 

Jon watched Tyrion plead with Daenerys, his small fists balled by his sides as he tried to calm the Dragon Queen from her slow-burning rage. He felt like a spectator, reduced to only the consort of a woman he didn’t even trust. Watching her grow mad, pacing back and forth in the candle lit tent, only made him more attentive.

“Perhaps if I could speak to her,” Tyrion pleaded. “She might listen to me.”

Tyrion and Sansa had been married and Sansa had spoken kindly of him in the past. Tyrion had been with Sansa when none of her family had. That fact had not left Jon’s mind so easily. But the idea of Sansa listening to a Lannister where Jon had failed left a sour taste in his mouth.

“If I could not persuade her,” Jon spoke low from the far side of the tent. “Then I doubt you will fare any better.”

“You might be surprised,” Tyrion shot back. The dwarf did not even bother to look Jon in the eye as he spurned him, instead coyly spitting the words out between clenched teeth. “I’m not the one who betrayed her.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jon yelped, launching himself from where he stood, shooting Tyrion such a look that the dwarf might have winced.

“Stop it! Both of you!” Daenerys shouted, halting her pacing to chide the two men. She spread her arms out wide towards both of them, standing in the middle like a bridge, catching their eyes wildly. “The only betrayal that has happened, is Jon’s people turning against him.”

She was instantly on his side. He knew that much. All Daenerys had seen was a kingdom ousting their ruler - an action that hit too close to her heart. It seemed to fuel a dark fire she had been struggling to contain. Though she could not know what had really happened. No one could have known...

Jon had warned her. He knew before heading to Dragonstone that the Northerners were not likely to kneel to a foreign ruler. Sansa had said so herself many times. He resisted the urge to gloat, to remind the Dragon Queen of his words. Despite that, he knew that gloating at this particular moment would end badly for him.

“I came here at your behest,” Daenerys said, moving threateningly closer to Jon. “I abandoned my war. I lost one of my dragons. I promised you, just as you promised me, to help you defeat the Night King in return for the North. I thought you said the Northern people were loyal.”

“Aye,” Jon sighed. “They are loyal. Loyal to their own.” He felt a dagger in his heart as the words left him. He thought they had accepted him. Perhaps they had…for a time. But what he had done was not Northern. _They didn’t know._ “But I’m not a Stark. I’m a Snow.” _You're a Stark to me,_ someone had once told him. “And that’s all I’ll ever be to them.”

_I never asked for you_ , Jon thought, glowering at the locks of silver hair cascading down her chest. _All I needed was dragon glass, and look at what you have brought me._

“What good is your word,” Daenerys growled low. “If your own people turn you away?” The fire in her eyes scared Jon, but he could not show it. He had faced his fears before - he had even seen this look before. Right before she flew off to exact revenge for the loss of Highgarden.

“Northern fools,” Jon made his voice quiet and soft, taking a chance to reach out and twist a tendril of Daenerys’ silver hair in his fingers. “They don’t like change. They don’t trust easily.” Daenerys visibly softened under his gaze, melting into his body, leaning against his chest to stare into his eyes. Her fire had subsided for now. “But they are not your enemy,” Jon stressed. “They merely trust Lady Sansa to protect them.” _Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa…_

Jon continued warily. “Sansa said she would not interfere. We can go straight North to the Wall. Cut the Night King off before he reaches the South. Then, afterwards we can discuss-”

“What would it look like if I were to give traitors clemency?” Daenerys asked the air. “I cannot reward rebellion with inaction.”

“Enough blood has been shed, Your Grace-” Tyrion cut in.

“Exactly!” she shouted. “Others who have tried have met my fire.” Daenerys pushed herself away from Jon, resuming her marching around the floor. The hair on the back of Jon's neck bristled as he watched Daenerys work herself into a frenzy again, away from his grasp. “They turned against their King. That act alone cannot be ignored.” She stood still for a tense moment before continuing. “They need to see who they have defied.”

“Your Grace…” Tyrion warned, his tone predicting where her wild mind was heading.

“I am a Targaryan!” she shouted. “I am The Dragon! My family won the Seven Kingdoms with their dragons - ruled in peace with the people for centuries!” Her voice was so loud that Jon was sure the conversation was not kept to the privacy of their tent anymore. Her bright eyes glanced up to Jon, a sudden determination burning through him as she spoke so stern the words basically trembled out of her. “Perhaps they need reminding.”

“They’re still my people,” Jon spoke up, attempting to reach for her hand, hoping his touch would soothe her fire yet again. “They don't need to be punished for my mistake.” She ripped her hand from his reach.

“ _Your people betrayed you_ ,” Daenerys hissed. “Why are you not more angry about this?” she asked. She searched him for an answer almost genuinely. As if she were looking for the secret for herself - curious if there was an answer to quelling the fire within. Jon had no answer he could honestly give. He only had himself to blame, and he knew it.

When he couldn't respond, her face fell, turning away from him to leave. “I don't want to murder needlessly,” she mused quietly. “I only need to kill one.” Jon’s blood ran ice cold, his vision sharpening in the darkness. “The one they trust in more than me.” _Sansa…_

“You can’t!” Jon blurted out. Daenerys sliced him with a glance, her eyes blazing wild with shock. As Tyrion tried to equally plead in the background, Jon couldn't hear him. His eyes were locked in on his target.

“She usurped you, Jon. Can't you see? She was waiting for the moment to take your power.” _No,_ Jon answered silently. _Sansa wouldn't do that. She had no choice._ Even if Daenerys was right, Sansa didn't deserve to die. Not by his hand or anyone else's. The Lords and the people… his home, Winterfell. He had not punished the Karstarks or the Umbers for their betrayal. That's not how you inspire love.

“She’s my sister,” he insisted, coldly. “She’s my blood. You _can’t_!” Jon had not screamed this loud in years, but he could not let her leave this tent.

“Your blood betrayed you!” she shouted back. “When this is all over, when I defeat the Night King, which I will, and when I have what is rightfully mine...there is only one Warden of the North I want by my side.”

“Your Grace, Sansa is still but a child!” Tyrion pleaded. “She has gone through more horrors than you know. Let the girl be. Take her as a prisoner. Exile her! Anything, Your Grace, but she does not deserve death!”

“Because of her, we are all sleeping on snow tonight,” Daenerys snapped to her hand. “An army left to the cold. An army that came to help her. Rebellion breeds more rebellion. There’s only one way to stop a snake from growing fangs - you have to cut off the head swiftly.”

At that moment, before Jon could truly process what she had said, several men burst into the tent, brought in by the commotion. Dothraki soldiers swarmed them, followed by Beric, Jorah and Varys. Jon paid them no mind, his eyes locked on the fair haired beauty. _I made a promise..._

“If you intend to kill my sister,” Jon growled, his hand reaching to grasp his sword on his side. “Then I intend to stop you.”

Daenerys eyes grew frantic for a moment, glancing down to his sword hand and back to his face. She spoke low in a tongue Jon did not understand, and the Dothraki men quickly moved to him, their savage weapons drawn. He kicked one warrior away, spinning out of the grasp of another, and successfully drew his sword before a blade sliced across his stomach. He roared out in pain before two more grabbed his arms as another grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling his head back and held a blade to his throat.

Daenerys calmly walked over to Jon, now on his knees held by the savage warriors Daenerys called her own. She glanced down to him, her eyes so angry they appeared almost burning red in the light. “She’s not your family, Jon. Not since the moment she took your power from you.” She spread a hand across his face, and he hoped that if their nights together had meant anything to her, had eased him into her heart, that she might concede. But her eyes grew cold, and she spoke through gritted teeth. “And Winterfell will burn for it.”

Then she left the tent, leaving Jon imprisoned on the cold ground restrained by her Dothraki. Jon looked to the men who watched in silence. He searched into each one of their eyes, pleading.

“She means to kill my sister!” he shouted, struggling with the hold on him, despite knowing he could not free himself. Varys shared a silent look with Tyrion, his face as still as a stone, his hands never moving from within his sleeves. “She’s going to kill Lady Sansa! You have to stop her!” He pleaded desperately, but the men only stared. Jorah’s eyes were sad, but he inclined his head and turned to leave the tent.

As Jon heard the unmistakable screech of a dragon call into the sky and fade, as he saw the men stay silent and unmoving to his pleas, he realized it was too late. He had failed. His chest burned, his vision left him as the world started spinning. He struggled to catch his breath before finally throwing his head back and releasing a feral and anguished cry.

\--

As the silent night dragged on, Jon lost all shreds of hope. The air had been quiet for hours, the snow covered ground muffling all noise around him. He silently begged for death, but the Dothraki refused him. They tied his arms and legs and left him restrained to the skeleton of a tree outside the campsite, kicking him and spitting on him as a parting gift for threatening their Khaleesi.

He leaned his head back against the cold bark of the tree and watched the night sky. The stars shined in mock of his torment. _If I fall, don't bring me back. Bran...Sansa...Arya… Father, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I failed._

He heard words echo in his head that he heard long ago. _Love is the death of duty._ He had believed that once. He had trusted in those words unfailingly. But now he rejected it. Love was the birth of duty. He saw that now. He saw that now more clearly than ever. Love was the _birth_ of duty...and he had failed.

Suddenly a hand reached from behind him, covering his mouth to muffle his scream. Surely the Dothraki had come to answer his prayers. To finally offer him the sweet release of death that had been denied from his soul for far too long.

“My Lord!” a voice hushed. The hand held fast against his mouth so Jon had to jerk his head to the side to get a glimpse of who had come to him. In the darkness he could see Varys’ face shadowed under a dark hood. “Be quiet,” he whispered.

Tyrion kneeled next to him. Behind them stood Beric, holding the reigns of three horses. Jon had not heard them at all. The snow must have covered their footsteps, muffled the noise of their approach.

“Daenerys has finally lost herself,” Tyrion whispered hurriedly, as he reached down to work on the ropes around Jon’s feet. “There is no need for more innocents to die.” Varys released his hand from Jon's mouth, and started to untie the ropes around his wrists. Tyrion rolled the rope into a coil, looking back to Beric quickly. “You must leave.”

“My sister, Sansa,” Jon breathed once his wrists were free. He hugged his arm to the wound on his stomach, groaning as he attempted to sit up. His injury stung in the cold air. At least when was tied and immobile he could have ignored it. Now it yelled to his bones in agony. But he couldn't worry about that - there were more urgent matters. “I have to go to Winterfell.”

“The poor girl…” Varys cooed.

Tyrions face fell and he swallowed a lump in his throat. “I must admit to you, Snow, I loved her truly,” Tyrion warily met Jon’s eye, waiting for the inevitable anger there. Jon did not react. He could not. Tyrion continued despite Jon’s icy stare. “She did not deserve to die, but I fear she is already lost. You must save yourself now.”

Jon refused to believe that. There might still be a chance that Sansa was alive. If Tyrion loved her as he said, how could he have stood by and done nothing? How could he not try to save her? If Sansa were indeed dead, Jon would not let the Lannister forget it. Her blood would be on his hands, as well. Jon held his tongue, refusing to say the words out loud that the other men were so sure of. “My family,” he choked. “Arya and Bran are at Winterfell. I can not abandon them.”

“You must,” Tyrion insisted. “Once Daenerys returns and sees you gone, I fear she will not give up easily.”

“We need someone who can defend the realm from _her_ now, My Lord.” Varys murmured.

He did not want to agree right away. He only cared about one thing - Winterfell. If his wound was truly terrible, then perhaps he wouldn't last much longer after arriving at Winterfell. He needed to see if his family was safe. He needed to protect his home. He needed to be sure.

Jon hopelessly looked to Beric, who he knew was a true knight in his heart, for an answer. Beric’s face was clad in shadow, but his as his head inclined Jon could see a gallant smile lingering on his lips. Instantly, he knew Beric was on his side. Beric knew what Jon had to do.

“I will,” Jon stated. “I promise I will. _After_ I retrieve my family from Winterfell. I swear it.” He needed to know. He needed to see for himself if Sansa, Arya or Bran had survived. If they had not…

Varys and Tyrion shared a long wordless look, thoughts passing between them, before Varys sighed into the night air and stood.

“Very well,” Tyrion resigned. “Perhaps there is still a chance. Hurry. You must leave before she returns.”

Varys assisted Jon over to the horses, and Jon managed to muster enough strength to pull himself into the saddle. Varys and Beric mounted their horses as well, and the beasts started thrashing their heads in anticipation. There were only three horses, Jon noted, but four men. Beric kicked his horse and ran off into the darkness, and Varys followed close behind him. Surprised, Jon glanced down to Tyrion.

“Come with us,” Jon whispered. “You can't stay here.”

“I must,” Tyrion replied. “If anyone asks, I was not here. I did not see you leave.”

“She will kill you,” Jon stressed, reaching an arm out for him to grab. Tyrion glanced at Jon’s offer for a moment, yet only nodded and stepped back away from the horse. He raised his chin and straightened his mouth into a coy smile. He had chosen his fate.

“You need to hurry, Jon Snow.”

Jon reluctantly pulled his hand away, his resolve strengthening. Tyrion was right. As much as he wanted to grab the man by the shoulders and drag him up with protest, he was not strong enough - and Winterfell needed him more. With a final glance, Jon nodded once, silently thanking him, and he kicked his horse to chase the men who had already left him behind.

 


	3. What Have I Done?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This might be hard to read. :( Sorry.

 

 

 

 

“The Hound?” Sansa asked curiously, with a playful arch of her brow. “I have half a mind to pry further.”

“I thought he was dead…” was all Arya could say.

She didn’t want to tell her sister that he was on her list, or that she was the one who had left him for dead. As much as she had fought with Sansa in the past, she didn’t think she could bear anymore judgement from her. It would have drawn an even bigger wedge between them - she knew it.

And deep down, Arya struggled with a small surprising feeling that nagged at the back of her mind - she was glad he was not dead. She was glad he had managed to survive...somehow. Was this wrong? Had she made a mistake in the past? She didn’t know how to feel about that.

Sansa placed a hand on Arya’s arm, noticing the hesitation in her sisters tone. She changed the subject, and Arya was glad for it.

“Brienne said Davos went to Eastwatch to gather the men they left there. He doesn't know about…”

“ _The_ _Queen in the North_ ,” Arya teased. Sansa smiled bitterly, a rare moment in the last few weeks, and let her guard down for a moment.

“I know,” she said. “It takes some getting used to. I remember how strange it felt when Jon was crowned.”

Arya grew quiet, suddenly solemn again. He had been so close to her - so close to coming home. The thought of what Jon had done, and even what Sansa had done, filled her with regret. Arya had once scoffed at the idea of Sansa being Queen. She had believed Sansa to be too weak and vain to be a good ruler. She had hurt her sister in horrible ways following that mindset. For which she didn't know if she could ever forgive herself.

Of course, Arya still disliked Sansa in tense moments - still hated her pompous tone sometimes. But Sansa had been loyal to Jon while he was gone. She had done everything for him to come back. Arya could still clearly remember when the Northern Lords rose up and declared Sansa as their Queen. She remembered the sheer fear in Sansa’s eyes. Sansa didn't want power. Not long ago, Arya could have believed Sansa would have cast Jon away quickly and easily. Sansa merely swallowed back her fear and tried to reason with the court. It was a good hour before Sansa finally conceded. Arya had first been furious, lashing out at her older sister, calling her horrible names. Sansa had locked herself in her solar for hours.

Family was important. Arya knew that now. But Jon was still her family, it would just take a little longer for him to come home. Sansa and Bran and her were all together again, and these last few weeks had been the happiest she could remember in a long time. They were home, and they were together. Jon was the only missing piece left.

“Do you think that was a stupid idea?” Arya asked quietly, referring to the early morning events. Sansa looked away, casting her eyes down to the parchments again, her smile slowly fading.

“I didn’t really have any other choice,” Sansa said defensively. “But Jon will come back eventually. He promised he would.”

Arya wrinkled her nose sadly. She didn't know if she could believe as strongly as her sister did. She knew that hope could be a painful thing. She sighed and fiddled with her sword, Needle. “I miss him…”

“I miss him, too,” Sansa murmured. Her eyes stayed fixed on the papers in front of her, but Arya noticed them blinking faster; struggling to hold back tears.

Suddenly the tower shook, vibrating as the air filled with an inhuman screech around them. Sansa and Arya jumped to their feet, looking to each other in confusion. There was another roar from outside and Sansa hurriedly reached to pull back the tapestry covering the window. The night sky was dark and moonless, shielding any sight beyond the torches of the castle grounds.

The men below started shouting. Guards ran from their posts and Arya heard women screaming. Then, a brilliant stream of light lit up the night sky just outside the castle walls, leaving a path of fire and ash like a moat around the grounds.

Arya swore under her breath. _A dragon._ Daenerys had come back with a dragon.

“Arya, go to the Crypts,” Sansa ordered, outstretching her arm to show Arya the way. Her tone reminded Arya of their mother’s, filled with worry and love.

“What?” she asked. “Come with me!”

“I have to find Bran.” _Of course_ , Arya realized. Bran needed help with his chair. Sansa had taken it upon herself to push him whenever possible. Almost as an excuse to spend more time with him. He wouldn't be able to make it out of the tower by himself.

“I’ll come too,” Arya started, and went to pass Sansa into the halls.

“No!” Sansa blocked her with an arm. “Arya. Get the others. Find Brienne - she’ll help.” And with that Sansa leaned down to give her sister a quick hug before pushing her towards the exit. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Arya nodded quickly before darting down the corridor as Sansa turned to run deeper into the tower.

\--

The night sky was finally starting to break. With morning light creeping through the darkness, the air sickly blue and quiet, Jon believed he might get to the castle gates just as dawn was breaking if he were fast enough. He left the two men behind him, urging his horse faster with each passing minute until he was strides in front of them. He could not wait for them. He would not falter.

The pain from his wound ached in his bones, and with each fall on his saddle the pain shot through him like lightning. But he could not slow. He needed to get to Winterfell.

The air was silent and still. He could not see or hear Daenerys’ dragon fly overhead. In the cold fog, he looked for the castle to appear on the horizon in the low light. Surely he would be there soon. He would find his family safe and unharmed, and they could all flee before the Dragon Queen returned. He would never let this happen again. He wouldn’t dare gamble with their lives again.

Hope was his only strength now, as his horse continued faster, his thoughts never leaving his family.

 _Bran_ . Bran was there. He had survived the sack of Winterfell, survived beyond the wall, and had come home. He had helped them. When Sansa and the Maester had written and said Bran was...different, Jon did not know how to process it. He had witnessed stranger things. But little Bran… _what had happened to you?_ Father would never have left Bran so alone. Bran had used these mysterious new abilities  to help Daenerys and him look beyond the Wall in this fight against the Night King. Bran had tried to save them, to help them, and Daenerys had attacked anyway. Where was the humility in that? Where was the honor? How could he have been so blind? Jon prayed that he was safe.

 _Arya_. He had seen her with his own two eyes and yet he had not touched her. He had not hugged her after so many years. She thought he was a traitor - an enemy to their father's memory. He had let her down. That thought ripped at his heart. He would never have betrayed her. He would have never left Winterfell had he known she was only days from his grasp. And now... he did not know if she were even alive. The hope that she was safe was his only driving force forward.

 _And Sansa…_ He could not bear the thought.

When he left Winterfell for Dragonstone, he was sure Sansa and he were all that was left. It was them against the world - together. He knew Sansa was strong. She was home. She would be safe. But his damn short sightedness - his damn mind for believing the worst. He swore to protect Sansa and he swore to protect his people. But he had brought a new enemy to their gates, instead. He had failed. He had broken his promise. _Sansa…_ he pleaded to the old gods and the new, whoever was there to hear him. _I should have listened sooner._

Suddenly, the gates appeared through the morning haze. First, Jon felt the wave of relief. _Almost there. I’m almost there. I promise._ Then, to his horror, Jon eyes adjusted to see the wisps of black smoke swirling high into the air. He was too late. She had been here. Winterfell was covered in smoke and ash.

There was no one at the gates. In fact, there were no gates left to guard. They had been splintered to pieces, the stone walls around them crumbled. Scarred with the unmistakable mark of giant claws ripping them down. Daenerys signature showed all around him. He had seen it before - in the ancient stone of the Dragon Pit in King's Landing. But he had never seen the fire before - the ash and destruction. He dismounted and ran through the opening with no one there to stop him.

The courtyard was chaotic, but this chaos was different than battle. This chaos was quiet. He heard a woman wailing in the distance. A man moaned as the last dregs of life drained from him. But the battle was over. People wandered around, dazed and confused, their eyes far. It was as if he were a ghost walking through the frey. Others scrambled to find supplies and help. The early morning light casting an eerie picture of the night before. The sky was raining ash. Snow and ash swirling together so as you could not discern between the two. Ash falling like snow...

He could hardly believe it himself. His home - attacked. His people - injured. This was not peace.

He stumbled through the maze of people, searching the ground for a familiar glimpse of auburn. _Where was she? Is she here? Did Daenerys get what she wanted?_

Off in the distance Jon heard a faint, yet desperate, “ _JON_ !” It was the first he had heard his name in what felt like ages. Someone recognized him. Someone saw him in the disarray. _Someone who knew him_. He swung around, searching through the ash.

Jon cocked his head to the side and squinted his eyes. “Sam?” he whispered. Surely he must be imagining it. Sam was here? In Winterfell? The round man came stumbling towards him, his arms waving madly by his sides to catch Jon's attention. “Sam!” he finally shouted. Sam’s plump face lacked his usual smile and laugh - instead he was yelling.

“Jon!” Sam yelled again as soon as he came close. “I didn't think I’d see you!” The two clasped each other in a strong embrace for a moment before Jon pulled back. He didn't let him go, maybe he wasn't strong enough to let him go, and he searched Sam’s eyes desperately.

“My sisters,” he said. _My heart, Sam. Where is she? Where is my heart?_ Sam struggled for breath and quickly shook his head.

“I don't know,” he panted. “Arya was in the courtyard. Said Sansa was going to get Bran...but Bran was with me, Jon! He was with me!” The rising panic in Sam’s voice shook Jon to his bones. _At least Bran is safe_ , Jon forced himself to accept.  Sam continued to ramble, the shock of it all causing the explanations to tumble out quickly. “I’m sorry, Jon. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” Jon swallowed back a scream, pushing down his growing fear - for Sam’s sake.

“Gilly?” Jon asked absently. “And the baby?”

“They're fine!” Sam answered, finally with a dim smile. “They’re here.” As glad as he was for Sam’s sake, Jon sighed, his mind elsewhere.

“I have to find my sisters,” he repeated. “Sansa was the one she was after. I need your help here. Can you take care of the wounded?” Sam nodded quickly, taking a deep breath before running off to the injured.

“SANSA!” He screamed amongst the chaos, shoveling his way through the crowd of dazed men. “ARYA!” The destruction was all around him. Women were weeping. Men were stumbling and bloody. Charred smoke rose from the towers that he had once run in during his childhood. Winterfell was ashes yet again.

He needed to find Sansa. He needed to know she was alright.

“JON!” He heard a call to his left, and he swung instinctively to search for the voice. “JON!”

A body crashed into him before he could blink. _Arya_ . _Oh, Arya!_ She’s safe. He frantically grabbed her, sweeping his hands over her hair and face, feverishly kissing the top of her head, thanking the old gods that she was here. Thank the gods his little sister was alive. She had wrapped her arms so tightly around him he could barely breathe.

She was crying, and she had buried her face into his dirtied tunic but he could feel her body shaking horribly. “ _She’s dead!_ ” Arya wailed, digging her fingers deep into his back. “She killed her!”

All the noise around them ceased. Arya’s sobs faded out and all Jon could hear was his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears. _No…_ His legs felt weak, and he didn't think about holding the little girl in his arms anymore. He collapsed onto the ground, his knees planting firmly in the mud. _No_ . Arya fell with him, refusing to let him go. _No_.

“Are you sure?” He whispered. She only cried. “Are you sure, Arya!” She wailed louder. For a moment, it was only the two of them. Everything around them didn’t exist. He held his sister against him as she screamed.

—

 _In the tower_ , Arya had said. Jon felt as if he were floating up the stairs, his feet carrying him as fast as he could. Part of him was terrified. He found himself wanting to call out her name, hoping to hear her voice in response. To hear her call out to him again.

As Jon entered the room, he froze. He heard Brienne’s cries first. She was wailing, on her knees, her sword cast several feet away from her. Sansa lay on the floor, a bookcase on the floor beside her, books and scrolls scattered everywhere. Her face was ice.

His knees went weak. She looked too peaceful to be dead. Maybe she was only sleeping. By gods, where were the healers? Why was no one trying to wake her?

Brienne glanced up as he approached and her tear-stained face turned feral. “ _You_ ,” she snarled.

Podrick rushed to the door. “My Lord,” he said, grabbing Jon’s arm to pull him away. Brienne rose from where she kneeled to glare.

Jon struggled to find his voice. He feared if he dare open it to speak, a scream might burst out instead.

“You did this!” she shouted.

“My Lord!” Podrick urged again, louder this time. He yanked Jon’s arm to try to drag him from the room.

“She’s my sister,” Jon said, fighting the young boys pull. Brienne didn’t move, only stood, towering over him, as if to protect Sansa even in death. Podrick jerked him again and caught Jon’s eyes knowingly.

“Please,” he insisted. Jon saw the frantic urgency in Podricks eyes, and decided against his better judgement to let Podrick pull him from the room.

Podrick led them several steps away and down the corridor, Brienne’s shouts fading as they went. The walls started spinning in his vision, and he could feel the stone walls closing in on him. There was his heartbeat again, pounding in his throat. Podrick seemed to notice and held Jon up against the wall.

“Where are the healers?” Jon mumbled. Podrick ignored him.

“What are you doing here?” The usually shy and quiet boy’s sharp tone took Jon off guard. _What am I doing here?_ His mind was fuzzy. _This is my home._

“I came as soon as I could,” Jon breathed.  “Varys and Beric helped me. I didn't know Daenerys would do this. I swear I had no idea-”

“And Lord Tyrion?” Podrick asked. His grip tightened on Jon’s shoulder as he dipped his head to meet Jon’s eye.

Jon couldn't respond. Tyrion was surely dead by now. Once Daenerys returned to camp and saw him gone, the dwarf had no chance. Jon diverted his gaze, his silence answering the boys question. Podrick’s face fell, and he didn't speak again.

“You leave him alone!” Arya barked, running swiftly down the hall towards them. Podrick let Jon go and silently left to return to the charred chambers.

“Where have you been?” Jon asked, reaching and arm out to draw Arya to him. He didn't want to let her go ever again.

“Nowhere,” she answered quickly.

“Where’s the Maester?” Jon asked.

Arya’s answer carried a cold meaning. “He’s busy.”

 _One cannot heal the dead_ , Jon thought darkly. _Even a Queen._ His stomach lurched.

“It was the smoke.” Arya said with a whimper. “She was all alone.”

 _Trying to find Bran_ , Jon repeated in his head, thinking back on what Sam had told him in the courtyard. How could he have left his family alone? He didn't think he would ever be able to forgive himself.

“You're hurt,” Arya noticed.

“It’s nothing,” Jon lied.

“It’s not nothing,” Arya protested, taking a step back to fully inspect the gash on his middle. The bleeding had stopped, at least, but the loose flesh stung with every move. 

Just as Jon was about to quiet his sister's protests, there was a great noise from the room. He had been too distracted with Arya to notice the shouting had stopped. There was a flurry of movement down the corridor and Podrick approached again, but stopped several steps away from them.

“Is Brienne gone?” he asked. Podrick nodded his head quickly. “I want to see her.” Jon caught Arya’s eye and added regretfully, “Alone.”

Arya reluctantly let him, and as he entered the cold room he could feel her eyes on his back. He understood, but he didn’t think he could handle having anyone else there to see him break. He wasn't strong enough for two.

Sansa’s skin was paler - paler than her usual complexion. She looked peaceful, as if she were sleeping. Her hands rested intertwined on her stomach. Someone had laid her down gently, but Jon saw the charred smoke and ash that stained her delicate fingers.

He dropped to his knees, his strength gone from him.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed. He found himself repeating it over and over. _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry..._

He had failed. She had died. The Queen in the North had died. The shortest reign in history, he guessed. She was gone. She had not wanted this.

He realized now, too late, that he had loved her. Not as a sister. In his childhood he said he had hated her. Hated her elegant walk, her airy hair and the way she could spurn him with a single word. But he always had envied her. He envied her confidence in who she was.

She was always beautiful. In his dreams he always imagined loving a woman with brilliant red hair… kissed by fire like radiant Sansa’s. His children had red hair like Robb and Rickon. He had always wanted what she had.

But when she had arrived at Castle Black, a broken soul just like he, he realized he was wrong. She wasn't the spoiled girl from his childhood. She had grown kinder. She had supported him. She had been there and given him a reason to live again. His conflicted feelings about his cold half-sister had shifted.

He had started to love her then. And no amount of distance, no amount of lovers in his bed could erase her from his mind. She was wonderful. She was strong. She was beautiful. And for a moment in his life, when he was at his weakest, all they had was each other.

He didn't dream of a faceless red haired woman anymore. He didn't dream of Ygritte. He dreamt of Sansa.

He cried. Silent, shaking, shivering sobs. She was gone and he was left alone again. He had done this to her. This was his fault. He had tried to run. To hide his feelings. But the moment he realized that she was in danger, that she might leave him for good, he felt them fully. _He loved her_. And because of him - she was dead. He would never again see her smile. Never again feel her hand on his. She never wanted this. She died trying to protect her family. She had endured when he had abandoned her.

He had always loved her.

If loving a sister was wrong, then how could her be dead be any better? He would have fled Westeros to keep her safe and loved rather than have her cease to exist at all. That would have been a better option. _Do you hear me?_ He pleaded silently. _How is this any better? How is this right?_

She didn't deserve to die. He did - time and time again. He should have stayed dead at Castle Black. He should have never seen her sweet face again. He should have stayed far away from her. He should have listened to her and not left Winterfell.

He was cursed. Everyone he loved died. He carried the mark of the Stranger. A dark omen to those around him. He was selfish to think Sansa would be safe from that fate. He cursed her the moment he swore to protect her. She had been bewitched the very moment he laid eyes on her.

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Her face stayed still and unmoving as he confessed his soul. Her skin white as ice, her lips purple from the suffocating smoke.

It was too late. Perhaps he did this, if not by his actions then by his thoughts. All the nights he prayed for the gods, any god, to take these desires from him. He wished he would not have to live with the torment. Begged to not have to live the lie he was forced to live. He wanted free of his feelings towards his own half-sister. Perhaps the gods had answered him, in their own cruel way.

Deep down he longed to see her smile once again. To see her glance at him knowingly as he made another foolish plan. He never knew how much he had loved it until it was gone.

If he were too much of a coward when she was alive, he would not call himself a coward in her death. _I will kill her for this_ , he vowed silently. _I will stop her_.

He stroked a hand over her red hair, smoothing it back behind her neck. He hoped she found peace in the beyond, unlike him. Deep down he knew there was nothing. But, for her sake, he hoped she was with her mother. In farewell, he took what he was too cowardly to take before. He leaned down and stole a kiss from her lips.

 

 

\--

 

 

 

No matter how angry she had been at her sister in the past, Arya knew that this was wrong. Just as wrong as her father beheaded. Just as unjust as her mother slaughtered during guest right and her brother’s body defiled.

She had treated her sister horribly. She had threatened her, scared her and thought the worst of her. But Sansa had proved her wrong. Sansa was not hungry for power. She had not betrayed their brother. Sansa had still loved her despite all of her horrible words. She had shown that in her actions in the last few weeks. Sansa had loved her anyway.

 _Is that how she would remember me?_ Arya thought. _Were her last thoughts of how her sister abandoned her? Would her last memories be the image of me running away?_

Arya was ashamed of herself. Father would have been ashamed. Two Starks, fighting amongst themselves. The last memories of her older sister would be forever tainted by her own stupid judgements. She had never considered Sansa would die without time for Arya to properly say ‘I’m sorry”.

The Hound was still in the crypts, cowering. The flames had pushed him underground, and now he refused to come out or even speak a word. Arya had yelled at him. Stood at the entrance and screamed at him and cursed his name. What help was he? Why was he here?

She knew him. Knew him better than anyone else here, she guessed, and yelling at him had felt wrong. But she had liked it.

Then she saw them. The two men, standing near the Sept, who stuck out like sore thumbs. The bald one, _Spider_ , Arya remembered, looked lost. Arya was not a proper lady, but she at least knew that if Sansa were still alive some sort of courtesy would be offered to them. They would have been swept to a room and away from the chaos of the courtyard. _Courtesy be damned_.

The other was unmistakable. _Beric_ . He was kneeling with an injured man. She remembered him well. She had once thought him honorable, but not anymore. _Gendry_. He had sold off Gendry to that Red Woman. He had taken him from her.

Arya gripped the Valyrian dagger at her waist. The fire of bitterness in her heart still burned for him. For what his group had done to her. But her fire now burned for vengeance.

“You,” she called.

She stomped over to them, Varys’ face as white as stone. Beric stood slowly, his uncovered eye lighting up in recognition.

“Remember me?” she asked. Beric didn't answer quick enough for Arya’s taste. She spoke louder, her anger boiling. “You served my father. You knew my mother. You sold Gendry to the Red Woman. You sold Hot Pie to the Inn,” she prompted.

“Yes, little one,” he answered her calmly. “I know you.”

She stood up straight, yet still only met the crest his his chest. He did not scare her. She had little else left to lose. She narrowed her eyes and spoke low, “ _You owe me a life.”_

—

“I had hoped to see you sooner,” Bran said, as Jon winced as Sam continued smearing a poultice over Jon’s stomach.

“I’m sorry, Bran,” Jon said weakly. He could ask for forgiveness the rest of his life and still not feel satisfied. Bran didn’t react, his face as blank as fresh snow. Jon glanced to Sam, and Sam innocently drew his lips back as if to say _yes, he is always like this._

Bran carried on, undisturbed. “I could not tell you with a raven, as the information is too sensitive to be seen by anyone else. I hope you understand that what I’m about to say is rather important.”

“Spit it out, then,” Jon groaned. He was too tired for formalities.

“Jon,” Sam added cautiously. “He means it.”

“I know who your mother is.” Jon’s breath caught in his throat, but to his surprise, Bran continued. “ _And_ your father.”

“What do you mean my father?” Jon asked hotly. “He was Eddard Stark, same as yours.”

“No, Jon. My father was not your father. He raised you, but he was not your father. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen, and your mother was my aunt Lyanna. They were in love. They married. She was not kidnapped like we always believed.”

There was a long moment as Jon let the words sink in. It was a joke, he thought. Bran and Sam were trying to get a reaction out of him. But Sam did not smile or snort like he used to when playing. Bran’s face was unreadable, but he had been right about other things.

Jon was cautious. “And you know this how?”

“I can see things,” Bran answered.

“Uh...huh,” Jon sighed.

“It’s true, Jon.” Sam spoke up. “At the Citadel, I saw it. In Septon Maynard’s records. He annulled Rhaegar and Elia Martell’s marriage, and he married Rhaegar and Lyanna in Dorne.” Jon was silent for a very long time.

“You’re not a bastard, Jon. You’re the last living son of Rhaegar Targaryan.”

“We are not brothers…” Jon breathed. The pieces falling together in his head. “This whole time…”

“Don’t you understand what this means, Jon?” Sam insisted. “You’re the heir to the iron throne.”

Jon didn’t care about that. Not now. Suddenly everything he thought he knew was a lie. His father- _no, his uncle..._ had lied to him his whole life. This meant that Daenerys was his aunt by blood. And Sansa was his…

He suddenly felt very ill.

“She named you Aegon.” Bran continued while Jon struggled to keep himself upright. “Your birth name was Aegon. Father swore to protect you.”

“You can see the past?” Jon asked breathlessly.

“Yes,” Bran answered, matter of factly.

“Did you know…” Jon started. “Did you know Daenerys was coming?” Stopping himself from saying what he truly wanted to - of speaking of who was really on his mind.

Bran did not answer. Jon changed his question. “Could you have stopped it?”

“No.”

There was a sharp pang in Jon’s chest. Was there anything anyone could have done to stop this, or would he have to go back years to stop the things set into motion? Was his very birth the catalyst?

“Queen in the North...” Jon sighed under his breath.

“And a good one, too,” Sam added softly. “She was really, really good at it.”

That didn't make Jon feel better. Everything tasted bitter to him now. Everything he had ever known was a lie, but oddly, it made sense. Eddard had gone south  to save his sister and had returned with a child. It made sense. How - _how_ \- had he not seen it before? They were cousins this entire time.

And Daenerys his aunt. His last living family. He had shared his bed with her. She had killed Sansa. She had burned his home. Would she if she had known that they were blood?

Sansa Stark. Queen in the North. He had done this to her. His own damn faults had done this to her. Now he was paying the price. What a cruel joke, indeed.

He had made a promise. He had said he would kill Daenerys and stop her from destroying more families. But now she was his blood. She was the last Targaryen no longer. Would she be happy with that news...or would she cut him down, as well?

“We have to leave,” Jon suddenly said. “All of us. We have to leave Winterfell as soon as possible. Daenerys will come back and she will kill us all if she finds us.”

“What about the people?” Sam asked.

“Give them fair warning. Tell them to head to The Vale, White Harbor - anywhere else but here. Quickly.”

“But, it's winter. No one can travel on foot in winter,” Sam objected.

“We have to try. We will come back when it is safer. I promise.” Jon stood and reached for his tunic in one swift motion. Bran watched him, oddly silent.  “I won’t lose you as well. Sam, go tell the people to prepare to leave. Bran, Arya and I will leave through the wolfswood, alone.”

Sam shuffled behind him as he paced the room, grabbing more items of clothing. “Jon, you won’t make it very far with your injury!”

“I don’t care. We need to hurry.”

He didn’t know when they would return to Winterfell. He didn’t know exactly where they would be heading. As long as they were together, he would not lose them. He would not fail again. But before they left, he knew he had to do one last thing...

 

...He would go see her one last time.

The snow crunched under his boots, and the entire castle grounds were eerily silent. Night was falling, and he could feel the eyes of bitter men on his back. _Yes. This is my fault. She's dead because of me._ He struggled to raise his eyes from the ground. He navigated through debris and ruins from the onslaught. He didn't want to raise his head. He couldn't.

As he neared the entrance to the tower, he noticed two shrouded figures emerge from the darkness.

 _Arya…_ He sighed. _Little sister...or little cousin_ , he corrected himself. _Oh, little Arya, I’m so sorry_ . Her eyes were red and puffy, and when they locked eyes, he saw a look he had long since forgotten. A look she bore usually for her mother when she was caught misbehaving. She looked… _guilty_.

Jon stopped his steps when he realized who was with her. _Beric_. Arya was with Beric?

Arya froze, just as he did, and they stared at each other for a long moment, facing off across the distance between them.

“Arya…” Jon’s voice suddenly broke. “ _What did you do?_ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who has left kudos, bookmarked, commented and followed! I am so pleasantly surprised! This started as a one shot, supposed to just be the first chapter, and it just grew a little bit longer. All the love is making me wonder if I should continue it further, to keep seeing what would happen, but who knows! At its core though, it is a JonxSansa story. Thank you all so much for enjoying it! I never expected this much love. <3


	4. What Did You Do?

“Arya... _What did you do?_ ”

Arya gawked open-mouthed, insulted by Jon’s question. She glanced up to Beric and then back to Jon, a shocked frown scowling her young face.

“I had to try!” she shouted, her small voice shaking in either rage or embarrassment. It didn’t matter. Jon didn't wait to hear her explanation. He rushed forward, shoving her aside to run up the steps of the tower.

 _She was going to be alone - like him._ He wasn't going to let her be alone.

“It didn’t work, Jon!” Arya called after him, hot on his footsteps. She ran fast but he was already halfway up the stairs when he heard her.

He didn't want to listen to her. He knew… He knew that it didn't work instantly.

The steps upward were a dream, and they seemed to slide under him so quickly he could hardly remember moving his legs. In the dark halls he waited for a sound, a signal, a clatter - _anything_ \- ahead. He pleaded silently, but his prayers stuck on a single word. _Please…_ He couldn’t figure out the end of his prayer.

He reached the dark room quickly and he shoved the heavy wooden door open. With a clamor he burst in, nearly falling to his knees, expecting to see Sansa’s blue eyes staring back at him - more alive with fear than they had ever been before.

But Sansa lay still - just as lifeless as she had hours earlier.

Arya came running in after him, already pleading. “Jon, _listen to me!_ I-”

“You don’t know what you’ve done, Arya!” he shouted, spinning around to catch her arm. “What life you might have cursed your sister to!”

She froze for a moment, wide eyes shocked at him. At first he expected her to cry, but his little sister - _cousin_ , he had to remind himself, the truth still a distant echo in his already chaotic head - was not the girl he had left in Winterfell so long ago. Her eyes were dark, and they turned angry instead.

“What have I done?” she hissed. She yanked her arm from his grasp. “What have _you_ done? _This_ is who you pledged to!” She pointed to her dead sister’s body on the floor. “ _This_ is what you allied with!”

Her accusation was a cold reminder. He knew she was right, but he did not want to admit it out loud. He did not know this was going to happen. He had not foreseen Daenerys’ true nature. He had worried, yes, but never in his wildest dreams could he have known this was the outcome. He never would have bent the knee if he did. _Never._ How dare Arya accuse him so. He had sworn to protect Sansa. Arya could not know just how much he had tried to keep her safe. She had no idea of the decisions he had struggled with in the dead of night - all for Sansa’s safety.

“ _You’re a fool,_ ” he snapped. Arya’s fists balled at her sides and right when she looked ready to shout at him again, to lash at him with more anger and rage, she turned and ran from the room without a word.

 _Damn her!_ Jon’s hands were quivering in anger. Arya didn't know what she had done. Jon did not want to follow her. He had little else to say to her right now, and he worried what else he might say in anger. Instead he only turned to look at Sansa’s body on the floor. She still lay so peacefully...so still.

Jon watched intently for any sign. He had awoken alone in an empty room with no one. Davos had told him that Melisandre had given up, and that they were sure he was gone for good before he eventually awoke alone. When had the Witch performed the ritual? How long had he laid there before she gave up? He didn't know. He didn’t ask. He had never wanted to know.

In the silence his mind raced with possibilities. The moments felt like years. How long would he wait? Perhaps Arya was speaking the truth and it had not worked. He felt a pang of sadness at the thought. As much as he dreaded Sansa having to live like he did, with the knowledge that there was nothing beyond, the feeling of not belonging, the everlasting doubt of what was worthy and truly honorable, he also missed her. She had died before he truly knew just how much he loved her. Everything was over before he could fulfill his promise to her fully. If he could have her back, just this once, his life would have light again. But he knew that his inner desire to have her back was wrong. People die. It’s what you do with your life that matters.

His breath hitched in his chest and as the seconds passed the small hopeful part of his heart quieted. Maybe Arya was right. Just as he was ready to release a sigh of relief, and he turned to leave her yet again, he heard a gasp behind him in the empty room.

Sansa gasped awake, her back arching and her arms tensing and seizing as if on fire. Her tongue choked on clots and bile that had formed in her throat. Jon, a man who had seen battle and wars, who had killed men with his bare hands and seen the true horror awaiting all of humanity, found himself frozen in fear. Sansa’s eyes were wild as her mouth twisted into creaking screams - only there was no sound. He could only hear the wheezing and choking deep in her chest as she struggled for air.

Jon broke from his shock to rush towards her just as she attempted another cry. Only more gasps for air. Her fingernails clawed at everything around her in a panic - scratching her skin, squeezing her neck, pulling at her mouth, and then clawing at Jon’s cloak. Once her fingers found the fabric she pulled blindly, yanking him into her. He stumbled over, catching himself before crashing into her, but in his own shock he did not know what to do in this moment to calm her.

Her eyes gazed up at him, wide and disbelieving, as she struggled for air. They were glassy with a haze of milky-white clouding the beautiful blue. Slowly, he saw the milkiness fade. No one else would see the death leave her eyes - but he did. He didn't think he would forget that sight for the rest of his borrowed life.

Slowly, her choking turned into breathy sobs. As heavenly a sound as a newborn babe’s first cry. They were shaky and breathless at first, as her entire body trembled under his arms. Had it been this slow with him? He couldn’t remember. He only knew there was nothing, and then suddenly...life. Or what could substitute for it.

He quickly removed his cloak to cover her shoulders, wrapping her up tightly as if to stop her shivering. But he knew all too well it was not the cold that made her shake. It was the shock. The sudden brightness the world seemed to have that you never thought possible before. The feeling of a million senses in your body awaking back to life. The fire that traveled from limb to limb. He knew it was not the cold.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. He should never have let this happen.

Sansa shook more, glancing wildly around the room as she realized where she was. Jon could see the realization finally hit her. She had not simply passed out. The chunks she had coughed out of her throat. The sharpness to her nerve endings. The disarray all around her. She knew. _She had died._

Short gasps of air built in her lungs like a rolling stampede before Sansa let out a horrid cry. The noise sent a shiver down Jon’s spine, but he had a dark and guilty thought in the back of his mind that accompanied it; _thank the gods she could._

He grabbed her arms to quiet her. “It’s all right,” he said quickly. “You’re all right.” Sansa looked at him, her brow wilted with frantic and bewildered questions. _How? Why? No. This is not all right._ “I know,” he said. “Forgive me.”

Slowly, she rose her hand, inspecting her blackened and charred fingers. He could barely believe it himself. She was moving. She was breathing. The image of her body on the floor still burned in his mind whenever he closed his eyes...but she was alive.

Her hair had freed itself from her braids and draped down her face and her shoulders like a waterfall of fire against her skin. He found himself twisting a lock absently between his fingers, savoring it’s wildness. Just hours earlier he had said goodbye to her - resigned himself to never touching her again. Now it felt like merely a dream as her chest heaved with renewed breath and her eyes searched for answers. He did not have to accept that truth anymore.

The need overwhelmed him. He pulled her body into his desperately and hugged her tight against him. He felt the warmth come back into her body. He could hear her breathing even. He held her against him as tight as he could, and did not want to let her go ever again.

Even he had not considered asking Beric to help bring her back when he had cradled her lifeless body. He knew this was not a life he wanted her to live. It was hollow, dark, and not the same as it once was. But his own hollow life would be only that much darker if she were truly gone. His life only had meaning when Sansa had given it to him again. If Sansa’s second life would be hollow, he dare not imagine how hollow his own would have been without her. He was glad, if only for a moment, that she was here. He was selfish and wicked in his relief. He wanted to take this moment and never give it back if it meant he had the woman he loved in his arms again. He hated himself for that.

Sansa’s cries faded into erratic breathing then into something that could somewhat resemble sighs. She struggled to form words, but the first sound off her lips was a melody to him.

“J-Jon…?” She touched her cheek, leaving a streak of black ash down her face. “What... How...What?” Each word a draining heave of her chest.

Jon could barely breathe. His closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. He did not think he could answer her questions right now. Most important to him was for her to know she was not alone - that she would never be alone again. He held her at arm's length and met her eye to assure her solemnly, “It doesn’t matter now.”

There was a long moment of silence between them as Sansa’s face twisted and contorted with every emotion he would expect. She turned her hands in front of her, inspecting the stains on her fingers. She admired the way her hands looked like her own, but no longer felt like they belonged to her. Jon knew this feeling. It was unlike anything else in the world. In a perfect world, she never would have had to experience it. But he knew so painfully well now, that this was not a perfect world.

“Bran-“ she suddenly said, her chin jutting up. She made to move but her arms gave out from under her and she tumbled like a newborn foul. “Where’s Bran?”

“He’s safe,” Jon assured her, reaching out to calm her and hold her steady.

“And Arya?”

“She’s alive,” Jon answered, though he couldn’t hold the contempt from his voice. He was still quite angry with her. Arya had given him Sansa back - yes. He was at least glad for that. But she had done so behind his back. He knew he had some choice words for her when he saw her again.

Sansa moved to stand again but she wobbled and collapsed in a heap. Her legs were still weak. He remembered the feeling well. She needed help, just as he had once. But they were alone. No one would have thought to come back up into the tower now. There was no need and much more important matters down below. A shout would not be heard in the courtyard.

“We need to find Sam,” he said, sliding his arms underneath her legs. Sansa wrapped her shaking arms around his neck as Jon lifted her up.

He carried her through the charred hall and down the stairs. His cloak was still wrapped around her thin and frail frame, and her blackened feet dangled helplessly as he tried to hurry. As they traveled down the hall, he noticed her gazing at the walls and the disarray around them. Winterfell was in ruins yet again. Halfway down the stairs, he heard a soft and sad sob just once, and then nothing more.

_What had he done?_

In the cold of the courtyard, he held Sansa tighter to his chest to shield her from the wind and snow. Quickly he ducked into the Great Hall. He rushed down one of the connected halls, shouting for help as he went. Shouting for Sam, for Bran, or even Brienne - for any face he would know. He had last left Bran and Sam in the Maester Solar. Surely they were still there.

“Jon?” Sam appeared at the end of the hallway, peeking out from behind a door.

“Help me!” Jon shouted back. Sam's face went white at the sight of him and the girl in his arms. He scrambled to hold the door open as Jon rushed inside, still clinging Sansa to his chest. Bran was no longer there, but Gilly and the baby were, and she leapt from her chair.

“Get some blankets,” Jon said quickly, placing Sansa into a chair. He knelt in front of her and wrapped his cloak tighter around her shoulders as Gilly ran to the edge of the room to grab a woolen blanket. Did she need air? Did she need space? Or heat? He could not decide.

“How is this possible?” Sam asked. “She was dead, Jon. You said so yourself!”

“Not anymore,” Jon answered. Jon desperately wanted Ser Davos here. He would know what to say, he always did. He had been through this before. But he was at Eastwatch, just as Jon had asked him to. Damn his short sightedness. What had he done?

“That’s not possible,” Sam mumbled. He stuttered nervously, his Maester mind unable to grasp what was plainly before him. “Unless she is…” His words trailed off, his unspoken question loud enough for another man of the Night's Watch.

“No,” Jon assured him. “A lot has happened since I saw you last, Sam. Death appears to not be as permanent as we once believed.”

  
—

 

  
Jaime’s back was aching and his ass was sore. He had traveled on horseback many times, but never alone. The Kingsroad was lonely and harsh, and the further he traveled north the harder it was to find a safe place to sleep or an inn still open to provide warm food or rest. Many a night he lay awake on the frost covered ground considering his choice, wondering if he should turn back and admit he was wrong. He could no longer tell if it was spite or honor that kept him going forward.

It seemed he was always one step behind the Dothraki. He could see their tracks all along the journey north. They sucked all the resources out of the air and the land like a forest fire and left little for him to scavenge after them. Even then he could not urge his horse faster to catch up to them. Although they were supposedly his ally now, he preferred to stay a few paces back - just in case.

When he drew nearer to Winterfell, the snow and winds were so strong he was forced to cover every inch of skin but his eyes. Just enough to see the path in front of him or any dangers that might lurk ahead. He wondered how King’s Landing would handle the snows once they reached the city. How Cersei would muster up food and shelter for the many who would flee their homes. _Would she even try?_ he wondered darkly. He was forced to admit he did not know. He could not predict his sister anymore. She seemed lost, even to him.

It was the babe he thought of. The one growing in her belly that might inherit this world. If Cersei had her way, there might not be anything left. Those...monsters would wipe them all out and leave nothing but death and despair in their path. There would be no Lannister legacy to protect. King’s Landing would be ruins. He had lost so much already. He could not in good conscious sit by and do nothing.

 _The heroes in songs always did something,_ he would console himself. _They always did something._ He had made a promise to that Targaryan girl and Jon Snow. In the past he might have let that slide to stand beside his sister, his queen, his lover - but he could not now. If the world was indeed to turn to ice, he would rather keep his word and die honorable than a coward. He still had a page to fill.

It was barely turning night when he reached the lands of Winterfell. He could have stopped early for the night and left at first light, but the hopeful thought of sleeping in a warm bed kept him going. Just a few more hours ride and he might make it after nightfall. He could afford a few hours night ride.

As he drew nearer, he was perplexed to find no lights ahead on his way. He knew Winterfell was close, but the horizon was dark and nothing but shadows. It was the smell that reached him first. Fire, smoke, and ash - bitter and twisted in the night. He did not see the walls of Winterfell in the dark until he was already upon them.

The stone walls were blackened and the gate was gone. The fortress was open and vulnerable to any who approached. White snow had melted and frozen again into crystal clear ice. Ashes and dust laid around the walls like a moat, but the walls still stood. _Stone doesn’t burn,_ he thought dimly. He knew this damage. He had seen it before. Dragonfire.

He kicked his horse onward quickly, renewed with a sense of dread. He did not want to think of who might have been inside. Shortly beyond the entrance, the sea of bodies and debris forced him to dismount and search on foot. Very few torches were lit, and the air was quiet and somber. Had those _things_ made it to Winterfell already? He could think of no other reason for dragonfire.

Those still standing were filling carts and horse packs with provisions and items, preparing to leave. No one paid him mind and he walked freely through the grounds. He had seen fields of war and the aftermath of massacres, and oddly to him this appeared to be neither. _What had happened here?_

In the dark gleam of the torches, he spotted a familiar head of blonde as he walked closer. Brienne was seated on a stone step, her face hidden in her hands. Her towering frame was still except for small, faint breathes that rocked her shoulders. _Thank the gods…_ He could not describe the relief he felt at her safety. It seemed this woman was invincible.

He walked faster, calling out her name as he rushed to where she sat.

Brienne glanced up, her face stained wet from tears she had not bothered to brush away. Brienne’s brow knit together once she recognized him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, though her eyes were already showing her realization. He was here too soon. He was alone. He had not come with Cersei’s army. Jaime could not find the words to answer her. She stood sharply and towered over him. Reaching out she grabbed the edge of his cloak and yanked him closer to her. “ _What_ are you doing here?” she asked again.

There were no words to calm her outburst. He merely glanced at her hand that was twisted around his cloak and then back to her face. “I think you already know why,” he said. Brienne's eyes flared wild.

“She’s not coming.” Her tone lacked any question.

“No,” he answered.

Brienne released her hold on him and stepped back, defeated. “Of course.” She fell onto the step again, her eyes at her feet. She started mumbling darkly. “I wasn’t there.” She glanced back up at him. “Sansa was crowned Queen in the North, you know. In my absence. In Jon’s absence. The North didn’t approve of our agreement. She sent me to King's Landing in her stead and I wasn’t there.”

The Stark girl had been placed as queen? Jaime’s first thought was _‘This will not please Cersei,’_ but he had to shoo that particular voice away. Nothing would please Cersei anymore besides perhaps complete control. But when he realized what this meant, in the grand scheme of things, he was left speechless. That Stark girl...Queen of the North? She must had inspired more loyalty than he could have ever imagined. She was simply a soft spoken, crying girl last he saw her. But why would that fact displease Brienne so?

“You’re not to blame for that, Brienne,” he attempted to comfort her, though he was not sure why he felt the desire to. “You went at her behest.”

“You do not understand-” she began to say, but there was sudden noise that took her attention. A huge shadowy figure emerged in the darkness, stumbling slightly and grasping onto a nearby wall lightly for support. It was not until the nearby torch illuminated the scars across his face that Jaime recognized who it was.

“Clegane?” he asked. He felt like he was in a terrible walking dream. How many more reunions would he have today? It was oddly surreal after weeks of traveling with no one but himself for company. The Hound was sunken and his forehead shined with a sheen of sweat despite the cold. He wasn’t known for smiling, but his face seemed extra long in the dark light, even for him. “You look like you’ve seen the seven hells.”

“You don’t look any better,” Sandor replied. Jaime tried to ignore the slight. It was true he was unshaven, unwashed and frozen to the bone. But a warm bath didn’t look to be in his future anymore, to his irritation. “And what brought you here at this fine hour?” Sandor asked. “You brought that army with you?”

“There’s no one else coming,” Jaime admitted. “It was all a lie,” he said. “Even to me.”

“Figures,” the Hound grumbled. He stumbled around, his back hunched and his eyes to the ground, picking up discarded weapons and inspecting them before throwing them aside. “Everything’s going to shit.”

Sandor’s words didn’t make much sense to him, and Jaime continued anyway, ignoring the old brute. “I came to help. Cersei will not speak for me. Not anymore.”

“Alone?” Brienne scoffed.

“You honored your vow. You kept the Stark girl safe. I promised to help in this fight. Now it’s time I honor mine. ” Brienne mouth twisted and she jumped to her feet only to shove him away with a hard fist. He was shocked at the sudden change in mood. “What? Was it something I said?”

“The girls dead.” Sandor answered for her, his voice oddly quiet.

“Dead?” Jaime repeated, but he didn’t need a response. Deep down, he already knew the answer. The dragonfire. The stillness. The empty lands for miles. He knew. “ _Daenerys?_ Why would she attack Winterfell?”

Sandor shrugged lazily. “You’d have to ask her. Or Snow.”

In the distance, Jaime heard a faint yet frantic call for help. It could easily be another cry for an injured soldier or man, but the voice was carrying away. It faded until he could hear it no longer, echoing against cold stone. He ignored it and turned back to Clegane, but the Hound’s eyes were far away, staring intently off towards the Great Hall.

Jaime tried to continue what he was saying, but realized no one was listening to him anymore. Without a word, Sandor began to walk away from their grouping. His pace started off slow and fumbling, but slowly it grew into a run. He was running towards the Keep. Jaime looked to Brienne, but she appeared just as confused as he. They shared a glance and suddenly they were both running after him.

They followed him into the Great Hall and down an adjacent hallway. The shouting had stopped but the Hound continued running, looking into each door as he passed. Jaime and Brienne's armor clanged and echoed with each of their steps, and it was all he could hear inside the walls. Suddenly Sandor’s massive frame disappeared into one of the rooms and Jaime and Brienne quickly followed behind him.

They were not alone. There were others standing around inside the chambers, deathly silently. No one moved and the Hound stood still as a statue, not even heaving in breath. Jaime heard Brienne lightly gasp behind him. In the center of the room sat Sansa Stark, eyes wide open and very much alive.

Jon Snow was knelt beside her, his cloak wrapped tightly around Sansa’s shoulders. At first his was the only other face Jaime recognized in the chamber. The Stark girl looked pale and shaken, but alive nonetheless. Why had Brienne and Sandor lied to him about her fate? Or had they been mistaken? Everyone seemed too shocked to speak of it. Then suddenly without warning, Sandor dropped to his knees.

“Forgive me,” he pleaded, and Jaime heard the quiver in his voice. Sandor’s shoulders began to shake violently with sobs. “ _I beg you!_ Forgive me,” he cried. The brute of a man was transformed into a weeping puddle on the floor.

It seemed the Hound had a few secrets of his own.

—

 

Jon’s heart raced faster once Brienne appeared in the doorway. He didn’t know if he could face her wrath again. Sandor Clegane and Jaime Lannister joined her. _When had the Lannister arrived?_ he thought. With Sansa by his side, Jon could only wait in dread for their reaction.

Everyone was silent when the Hound fell to his knees. “Forgive me. _I beg you!_ Forgive me!” No one spoke as the man shook with sobs. Sansa stayed still in her chair, and shared a worried look with Jon.

“Why do you need forgiveness, Ser?” she asked softly.

“For all I did. For all I thought. And for all I did not do.” He would not meet her eye. “Please, forgive me.”

Sansa could not respond. The Hound’s cryptic words were left to fade into the air as the others in the room struggled to come to grips with what had happened. Brienne took a threatening step forward.

“What did you do?” she asked. Her eyes were wild and frightened, aimed at Jon and Jon alone.

“Nothing, I swear,” Jon insisted. It was true. He had done nothing. Brienne scoffed but knelt down beside Sansa anyway, placing a hand on her arm. As Brienne inquired Sansa on her state, Jon took the chance to look to Ser Jaime.

“You brought men with you?” he asked, hopeful. “Are the forces outside?” Perhaps some luck had smiled on them, after all. The Crown’s forces were here to help them after the attack. They had not lost all of their strength.

Jaime looked uncomfortable as he struggled to answer. “I’m afraid I’ve come alone. There’s no one else.”

Jon’s heart sank again. “No one?” Jaime shook his head.

Before Jon could respond, many more came running. Podrick came with Bran in his chair, and Sansa’s eyes lit up.

“Bran!” she gasped. She reached a hand out for her brother, too weak to stand, but Podrick brought him close so Sansa could grasp his hand in her own. “I’m so relieved to see you safe.”

Then Varys and Beric came toe in toe, and suddenly Yohn Royce was also there. Jon worried the entire castle would soon fill the hall.

“Your Grace,” Lord Royce breathed once he saw Sansa. “I am so pleased to see you are well. There were grave whispers…” He was unable to finish his sentence. He had either believed a lie, or the truth was much stranger than whispers.

Sansa, panicked, looked to Jon at a loss for words. Quickly Jon cut in, answering for her, “She is still injured, my lord. Though alive, that she is.”

Royce’s face turned. “Why are you here? You are not welcome. That woman-“

“I’m not here as your King,” Jon interrupted, feeling a slow fire in his veins at the accusation. “I’m here as …” The words halted in his throat. _Cousin? Brother?_ He dare not say Targaryan. At this moment he was glad Bran had kept his lineage a secret. They would not act warmer to him if they knew. “I came to help my family.”

This did not seem to please him. “You’re a traitor. This attack was from this foreign woman you choose to bend to-”

“He is my brother, Lord Royce, and he is here. That is all that matters right now,” Sansa spoke. Jon felt a punch to the gut at her words. “Thank you, my lord. I wish I could say I was in good health, but I am rather injured.”

Sansa’s eyes scanned the room, searching for something...or someone. She turned to Jon and asked, “Where’s Arya?”

Jon didn’t want to answer. He had chased her out with harsh words.

“She’s gone,” Sandor answered. He stayed on his knees, seemingly too weak to stand, and he bowed his head so deeply that one could not see his eyes.

“What do you mean she’s gone?” Brienne asked.

“I saw her leave through the East Gate,” he answered. “She was alone.” Jon’s mind prickled. _Oh no…_

“And you just let her leave??” Brienne shouted.

“She’s going after Daenerys,” Bran said suddenly. He voice was so soft that it was almost like he didn’t understand the magnitude of his words. His sister was running after the Mother of Dragons - alone!

“We need to stop her-“ Sansa choked, and Jon knew she was not fully thinking it through. She wanted her sister back, true, but running _towards_ the Dragon Queen was impulsive, especially for the Queen in the North.

“We can’t,” Jon whispered.

“I’ll go get her,” Sandor announced. He stood up and his height was suddenly towering above them all. He kept his eyes fixed on Sansa as he spoke. “Allow me this. I’ll go get her for you, little bird.”

Sansa gazed up, and her mouth tightened into a grim line. Slowly, she nodded. “Brienne-“ she said, and the woman turned and gripped the hilt of her sword. “Brienne, can you accompany him? Find my sister. Protect her.” Brienne nodded gravely.

“We all should be leaving,” Jon reminded the room. “Soon.” They had already stayed in Winterfell’s charred walls long enough. It was only a matter of time before Daenerys returned. “Daenerys wanted to only kill you, Sansa. Who knows what she might decide to do next.” Sansa’s head whipped around as if he had struck her across the face.

“No,” Sansa muttered. “No. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. This is our home. I’m not leaving!”

“Sansa,” Jon stressed, dropping his chin to catch her eye seriously. “The gates are gone and half the castle is burned. You cannot stay.”

“Where else would you have me go?”

Jon had barely a plan for he, Bran, and Arya, let alone the North’s new queen. His mind quickly scanned their options, and he didn’t like what was left. Winterfell was gone, but the Night King and the dragons still loomed overhead.

“The people are ready to leave for White Harbor. We can split and go to Eastwatch. Davos is there, and-”

“It’s too late,” Bran interrupted. Jon’s blood ran cold at the words.

“What do you mean it’s too late?”

“The Wall is gone. Eastwatch is gone. There is a dragon that breathes blue fire.” Seven buggering hells... _Viserion_. He had hoped, prayed, that it would not happen, but deep down he knew it was true. The Night King had taken Daenerys’ dragon for his own - and now he knew Bran was speaking the truth that the Wall was down, as well.

The War was here. Much sooner than he had feared.

He couldn’t help but think of Davos and Tormund and all of the Wildlings that he had sent there... _What had he done?_

“The Wall is gone…” he heard Sansa breathe next to him. “That means…”

“Aye,” Jon struggled to answer her. “They’re coming.”

“Dreadfort,” Sansa gasped. “We still have Dreadfort. It’s walls are thick.”

“You cannot go _more north-_ “

“You said she wanted to kill only me,” Sansa argued. “If she follows me, we can lead her north and towards the real threat. Away from those traveling to White Harbor.”

As much as Jon wanted to send Sansa to safety, and to keep her as far away from the monsters as possible, he knew her plan might work. It might just be crazy enough to continue this war. A sad smile pained him, and he nodded once. It was worth a shot. _Oh, his sweet Sansa..._

Lord Royce had an offer for his Queen. “The Knights of the Vale will ride with you, Your Grace.”

Sansa struggled for a moment before answering. “No,” she murmured. “Any army sent with me will surely die as soon as a dragon comes. The fewer with me, the better.” Jon sighed in relief. She had learned. In a horrible way, but she had learned. “Protect the people on their way south. I want them to arrive safely.”

“But who will protect you, Your Grace?” Royce asked.

“I’ll stay with you,” Jaime suddenly said, and even he seemed surprised by the announcement. “Wherever you go, I will follow.” Brienne mouth dropped open, but Jaime stared ahead, seemingly trying to avoid her eye.

“We must leave quickly, under cover of night,” Sansa said. “Lord Royce, I am entrusting you to lead everyone safely. Please instruct the other lords to hurry.”

“Everyone, pack lightly,” Jon ordered, and for a moment he forgot he was not their leader anymore. “We’ll leave within the hour.”

And with that, body after body left the chamber to prepare. Lord Royce hurried out, solemn in his duty. Brienne, Jaime and Sandor all left together, huddled as a towering trio. Sam wheeled Bran out the door, promising to help the Lord gather his belongings. Podrick gracefully offered to help Gilly and the baby. Beric and Varys left slower, with Varys leaning close to catch Beric’s ear, whispering.

“I’ll fetch a handmaid,” Jon said. “To help you dress.”

“Jon-“ Sansa spoke. “Please stay.”

Jon was suddenly aware of Sansa’s fingers, slender and cold, wrapped tightly around his hand. She had not let go of him this whole time. He swallowed a lump in his throat and wondered if she would hold him so tightly if she knew the truth. It was another odd feeling to add to the pot that was today. She was unaware of who he truly was, that he was not her brother but instead her cousin, and she was unaware of how he truly felt about her. She had no idea that he loved her, body and soul.

He found himself a coward once again. He could not tell her. Not now. There were much more important matters than his own silly heart to attend to. He dare not burden her with this.

“Everything in my body is screaming,” she said. “We need to get her back. I don’t know what I’ll do if Arya is hurt.” Her voice was so quiet and weak. The strong regalness he had heard on the field and moments ago a memory.

He gripped her hand back, trying to ignore how much he enjoyed the feeling of her soft skin, and assured her, “We will. I promise.” Though he didn’t like making promises very much anymore.

Sansa pressed her palm deep against her chest between her bosom, and held it there for a long moment. “ _Is this what it feels like?_ ” she asked, the words squeaking out of her throat.

His heart broke at her quiet question. “Yes,” was all he could say. Jon didn’t need any further questions. He and Beric were perhaps the only people here who knew what it felt like. To die and be reborn amongst flames.

He watched her glance painfully around, trying to take it all in, and his heart shattered for her. He would not have wished this on her. It was a hollow feeling - like a piece of your soul was left behind. Your limbs looked like they used to, but felt different. As if they had been cut off and thrown to sea.

She stared at him, her ice blue eyes melting into streams. “How did this happen?”

He dare not tell her. He dare not tell her what Arya had done and he dare not tell her he was in love with her. “You’re here now. That’s all the matters.” It did nothing to dwell on the past now. They needed to hurry.

Her eyes were sad, but she bid him on with a soft nod and finally let his hand go. He let her fingers slip from his like water droplets, and actually found himself wanting to find an excuse to stay longer. But he could not.

He stood and left, calling out for handmaids in the hall. No one came at first except a squire, small and agile. The boy promised to find help for the Queen and ran off. Varys and Beric were still standing there, with idle hands but busy eyes.

Varys stepped forward, his face absolutely alight. “I’m so glad to see your sister survived,” he said, his voice oddly cheerful. “Now that you’ve seen your family is alive and well, you will keep up your end of the deal?”

Jon had made so many promises in the last day. He wished he could fully express his exhaustion with merely a look and pierce the man straight to his soul, but he settled on a sigh. “Aye.” He would try to stop Daenerys from hurting anyone else, and he would try to keep the monsters from taking any more lives - but if he could not even protect his home, how good was his word? They’d be better off following Sansa.

“Such a sweet girl,” Varys continued. “They seem to really love her here.”

“You should be preparing to leave,” Jon said, ignoring him. “And you,” Jon said as he passed Beric in the passageway. “Come with me.”

He went to the only place he knew to go. His chambers. He was glad to see they had not changed. He had been ousted as King but the Lord’s Chambers were not his to lose. He had given them to Sansa. His chambers were smaller and more humble, and he found that his things had not been touched. Beric followed him in and Jon shut the door behind them.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Jon said as he began to throw various items into an old pack. “You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. Sansa shouldn’t be here.”

Once his pack was full, he fell heavily into a nearby chair. He had not slept in over a day, and it seemed he would not be able to anytime soon. He rubbed his tired eyes as he asked, “Answer me truly, Beric. Do you remember dying?”

“Every time,” he answered. Jon had remembered his death, too. He remembered the sickly cold feeling of steel against his insides. Sansa must have remembered her final moments as well. He had hoped she was spared that, at least.

“And what after?” Jon asked quickly. “For you - what awaited you after dying?”

Beric answered darkly, “Nothing.” Jon thought so. He lowered his head and tried to ignore the pain in his heart, for it was the same for him.

He could only think of Sansa. Of what she had endured, what she might remember, and how she might continue. “Do you think it’s better to be here? When there’s nothing waiting for us in the afterlife?”

“The God of Light has a plan - for all of us, it seems.”

“You do not get to make that decision.” Jon hissed. “You should not have helped Arya. You should not have brought her back.”

“I didn’t.”

Jon scoffed. Of course he did. How else would Sansa be alive? That wasn't a chance occurrence. People die and stay dead. That was a fact. Unless he had believed more lies than the one his uncle had told him his whole life.

“I swear it,” Beric stressed. “She did beg me. She pleaded - _‘Please, for the memory of my father and my brother, bring her back to me.’_ But I am not a priest. That is not my place. She wanted her sister returned to her, but her heart was vengeful and cold.

“I tried to explain that life is not ours to control - that choice belongs to the God of Light, if he so chooses. Tearfully, and reluctantly, she came to accept that. I offered a prayer. I prayed to the God of Light to see her soul beyond, as Thoros had done so many times before me. To help ease the little ones suffering.

“But I could not bring her back. Thoros took his secrets with him to his fate. Even if I did attempt it, it might have resulted in my own death. I only have so much light left in me. With Thoros gone, that would have been the end of me. Through Thoros the God of Light granted me life with a kiss, and each time that kiss drew a bit of his own light out of him - left him a little weaker than before.” Jon’s eyes slowly rose from the floor as the realization hit him. “I could not give her a kiss of life, so I only prayed. I swear it.”

Jon’s heartbeat quickened in his throat. _A kiss of life?_ Was that even possible? Jon felt a sudden sickness deep in the pit of his stomach. He thought he had spent all his emotions today. Surely he had no more to be felt. But this...this topped them all.

He jumped from his chair and Beric shrank back in surprise. Jon looked down at his hands as they shook and trembled in the low light. _These very hands…_

He reached for the nearest item to him and threw it against the wall. The vial filled with healing herbs shattered into a million pieces, scattering across the floor.

“Forgive me,” he breathed. “It was not you who revived her...It was I.”

“Why do you-“

“I kissed her,” he admitted, throwing his hands to intertwine through his hair and rest on the back of his head, his panic rising. “I did it. I brought her back.”

_Seven hells… it was me._

 

  
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End file.
